Celtic songs and spilled tears
by BucketsOfCrazyLove
Summary: They were a breath apart, a river of sea apart. But it still felt like the whole world was between them. Do you have the slightest idea how painful it is to be him? The pretense is just killing him. And so is his heart. It's just Francis, being vulnerable, all on his own, alone in his cold kitchen. It's just 15 painful minutes inside France's head. FrUK. Oneshot.


**A/N: Okay, so this is me trying to write fluff. It just doesn't exactly happen for me, fluffiness. So it turned out to be drama. Anyway, feeding at my crazy obsession with everything that's Gaelic, Celtic or of the Northern tribes in any way, I have decided to write this oneshot. **

**And I think that's all. Oh, and translations will be at the end of the page. **

Francis was watching the rain and singing when he collapsed. He was gazing out of his kitchen window, face propped up his cold fingers, as the sky cried. He always got depressed in this kind of weather. It was just so... so... British. He felt as if he was back in those days, all mingled up with England, when he had been Gaul, when he–

No. He pulled away from the window, feeling an empty tugging at the pits of his stomach. A longing so painful all the wine and faceless sex in the world couldn't wash away. He covered his face with his palms, and forcefully ran them down his cheeks. He returned to staring at the downpour. The raindrops landed fast on the earth, as if they couldn't stand being away any more. Or as if making contact too quickly would destroy the poor ground.

Francis ground his teeth, and closed his eyes with a pained wince. He knew how that felt. As if crushing the other would bring them closer, as close as they could get. But it... it just never seemed to work, did it? They were a breath apart, a river of sea apart. But it still felt like the whole world was between them. He buried his hands in his hair and curled his fingers into fists, tugging almost painfully at his scalp.

His eyes snapped open, as they began to sting with unshed tears. He tried keeping his eyelids apart, so the bitter, bitter tears of heartache wouldn't course down his face, falling on his too expensive shirt. It was all pretense. Everything. The whole world. It had been so, so easy when he could smile and laugh with a too thin, too pale blond boy, instead of mock him, and pretend his words didn't break him bit by bit, until France was no more. It could happen. And the irony, oh the sweet irony of it. The country of love would die of the too much pain unrequited love towards his worst enemy caused him.

Francis watched as the sky cried and prayed, oh, Dieu, did he pray, that he was someone else, anyone else. Maybe a human, maybe just another man in crowds and crowds of them. He prayed that he had born when he had been born and died like a mortal, like a Gaul. But no, he still would have met _him_, and his heart would again not be his. So maybe, he should have prayed that he had never met a beautiful sad boy under a rainy sky like that of that day's.

His eyes became unfocused, and his gaze, when it became less blurry, landed on the reflection of his own face on the glass. It was wet, fat drops of rain sliding down, and it seemed to Francis as if he was watching his own tears. _Don't cry, Albion! It's all going to be okay. Here, I'll sing you a song, so you can forget your pain. _Francis remembered and started swaying from side to side at the fading notes in his head.

"Ar soudarded zo gwisket e ruz, o lin de lin da lan de lin da la la..." He let his voice fade in the cold tiled kitchen. He wrapped his hands around his waist and started singing again, to fill the silence, the void, the emptiness that was taking up slowly the spot where his happy beating heart used to be. But _he_ had destroyed it. Filled it to its capacity. So, Francis sang a song all too forgotten. It wasn't particularly happy either. Oh, no. it was about a red army, and a warrior dying, and priests dressed in black, and Bretons crying. And it just felt appropriate.

So Francis swayed by himself, arms wrapped around his body, his voice shaking and breaking, the words tasting like salt, as tears dripped from his eyes. Francis sang of dying men, so he could forget his own demise, on the inside, every day that went by that he had to pretend. Pretend he didn't care. Pretend he wanted to cause hurt. Pretend, pretend, pretend. And then come home and cry. That was his life. And that was going to be his life, he realised, and it hit him like a slap across the face, that from now on and forever, until the end of his days, he would have to pretend.

Francis' singing was cut in half as a sob wracked his body, and tore from his lips, but he went on, still, still, forever. "...Gant ar Vretoned o ouelan..." and he sang, still, as he slid down to floor, his hair covering his crying face, as he sang and sang and sang, and prayed, Dieu, s'il vous plaît, tuez-moi. It is too painful to go on...

**A/N: Uh, I can't believe this began as a fluff. Well, I guess now what's done is done...**

**Translations: **

**1-from the song from Brittany) a. Ar soudarded zo gwisket e ruz, o lin de lin da lan de lin da la la: The soldiers are dressed in red, o lin de lin da lan de lin da la la.**

**b. Gant ar Vretoned o ouelan: Bretons began to cry.**

**Okay, this is from an actual song, it's called "Ar soudarded zo gwisket e ruz" and if you listen to it while reading you will really, really want to cry. I know I did. **

**Oh, and reviews are extremely welcome. **


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